


got some time

by goshemily



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Time, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-26 02:10:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6219536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goshemily/pseuds/goshemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t help that throughout the meeting, the naming of the ABC and the establishment of their goals, underneath everything Enjolras is aware of the fleeting heat of Grantaire’s skin against his own.</p><p>(“I’d like us to try to be friends.”</p><p>“What kind of friends?”)</p>
            </blockquote>





	got some time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Overnighter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Overnighter/gifts).



> For my darling [Overnighter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/overnighter/works), with much love!
> 
> Many thanks to [barricadeur](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeur/works) for idea help, to [Ark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ark/works) and [miss_begonia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_begonia/works) for hand-holding, and to [thebridgesandtunnels](http://thebridgesandtunnels.tumblr.com/) for knowledge. Many thanks also to [twofrontteethstillcrooked](http://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/works) and [shakespeareandpunk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/shakespeareandpunk/works) for first looks.

No one should leave their windows open in a rain like this, but walking from the subway Enjolras can hear someone in an upper-floor apartment playing Jimmy Cliff loud enough that not even the storm can drown it out. He’s a block from home, bareheaded – something about the rain makes him feel present, on a day when he needs it – and the way the music catches him and sets a rhythm for his feet is physical, turns even the cold slide of water down his spine into a desired chill, makes the way his clothes stick and lie heavy feel right.

Today work was terrible, but every day is only one day before the next.

He grins, and the song fades out, becomes one a little slower and a little more urgent. It feels right.

By the time he gets to his front door and fishes his keys out with clammy hands, he can’t hear the music anymore, but it still stays with him as he trudges up six flights of stairs, and he’s smiling when he shakes his hair out like a dog and hangs up his coat. He texts Combeferre – _coffee tomorrow?_ – and open his own window just in time for the first shock of thunder.

*

In the morning the city smells clean, wet pavement and renewed resolve. Even the produce at the bodegas looks bright, and Enjolras buys a banana on his way into the office. He wades through a stack of paperwork, starts mapping an opening statement, and by the time he meets Combeferre in the late sunshine, the day feels like it’s his.

They’re in one of the less objectionable cafés somewhere off Washington Square Park, home to more grad students than tourists, and Combeferre looks settled into the semester.

“You think?” he laughs, fingers firm on his chipped mug. “I know how you feel about the ivory tower, but sometimes I don’t think it’s going to be easy to knock down.”

“Brick by brick,” Enjolras says, and feels fondness buoyant inside him. 

“I’m almost done with my conference paper. It could be… contentious.” His sharp grin is easy to answer, and the afternoon draws long, until they’ve collected Courfeyrac and a couple of barstools as well, a few doors down and the evening darkening.

“Impressive length,” Courfeyrac says, and whether he’s talking about the tall bartender or the beer list is anyone’s guess. The bartender overhears, and he winks.

Courfeyrac holds out his hand, and somehow it’s the right side of charming. “We’re celebrating,” he says. “I’m Courfeyrac.”

“Bahorel,” the bartender says, and “Celebrating what?” and holds Courfeyrac’s hand just the right side of too long.

“It’s spring. Warm weather, new beginnings, rooftop parties, bonfires –” 

“Isn’t that for summer?” Combeferre murmurs to Enjolras.

“Fire is always appropriate,” Bahorel tells him, mock grave.

The night spools: a strong Manhattan, something stronger (“Jameson for this one,” Courfeyrac says, and thumps Enjolras on the back, and then downs two shots of tequila in a row), a couple of beers, and under everything is the pleasant glow of being with good friends.

“You know what we need?” Enjolras asks finally.

“A political revolution?” Courfeyrac offers.

“A viable path to the International Criminal Court?” Combeferre knows his pet issues.

“More beer!”

“The phone number of the girl writing her doctoral thesis on Fanon?”

“No, that’s what _you_ need,” Enjolras says. “ _We_ need Joe Strummer.” They’re a good walk now from the mural, but tonight’s the kind of mood where he’s just tipsy enough to want to go out of his way to visit it, pay homage.

He slides from between them, and fishes out a dollar for the jukebox. It’s right next to the door, a reminder of clear air as he flicks between screens, and finally finds “The Guns of Brixton.” He queues it and steps outside into a city that’s still mostly warm.

The brick is rough when he leans against it, centering. He closes his eyes and breathes.

“You okay, man?” 

He opens his eyes to a Springsteen conjuration, a guy it takes him a second to process: black jeans, loose boots, a thin white shirt. Curly dark hair and Enjolras blinks back inappropriate thoughts. A glowing cigarette in a delicate hand.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He toys with asking for a light, but then he’d have to beg a cigarette to go with it, too intricate a dance for the sudden apparition. His bones ache, and like a blow the past few days catch up with him, the abrupt clarity and exhaustion of the slightly drunk. Today was good, but yesterday, and yesterday’s yesterday, were too much.

“Okay,” the guy says, mouth quirking, and turns away. His jaw in the neon of the bar sign is sharp.

By the time Enjolras says goodbye to the others and leaves for home, the guy is gone.

*

Thursday is tempered less by a hangover than by a simmering anger: at racist police, at a system that inculcates inequality, at housing costs, at the smallness of the Legal Aid budget. The sky lowers again, and the pressure builds until Enjolras can’t stand the thought of the subway, the intimate press of every sweating body, and strides home through too-early too-thick humidity instead.

He thinks about going for a run, but slows desultory near his apartment, and listens for music he doesn’t hear.

*

By Sunday the yawning gulf of the city is navigable, ready to be managed. Enjolras spent Saturday in the office, but Sunday dawns with the possibility of catching his breath. Courfeyrac wants to try a pickleback bar (“But _why_ ,” Joly asks, pained; “That’s at least two years out of date,” Jehan says in his most dismissive voice), and instead they end up somewhere that serves omelets the size of the moon.

“Did you get Bahorel’s number?” Enjolras asks Courfeyrac, trying for conciliatory.

“Yes, _and_ he wants me to join his bowling league.” Courfeyrac is undiminished by the loss of pickle juice, fairly radiating good will, stretching like he’s scratched an itch. “We’re compatible in more ways than one, it would seem.”

“Bahorel?” Jehan’s ears perk like an elf’s. “From the Musain?”

“Do you know him?”

The sun blooms over Jehan’s face. “I’m so glad you met him, I think you’ll like his politics, we go way back –”

It’s the kind of brunch that ends in plans for another group outing, Bahorel texting possible times with both Courf and Jehan (asking too about Jehan’s beloved illegal ferret Bob, so Enjolras can see how truly good a friend he is), and with the contentment of a girding day before a long week.

Outside his apartment in the purple shadows, Enjolras can hear someone playing “Born to Run,” a little too loud for politeness and a little too quiet to figure out who needs it.

*

At the tail end of a long trial Enjolras ghosts into the Musain, too transparent for now to be a good time for the scheduled hangout. On the walk up West Broadway he’d thought about a quick text, a _sorry, not feeling well_ , but that wouldn’t be fair. Bahorel promised to bring some like-minded friends, and tonight could be the making of something.

Unlikely, but possible. Enjolras tries to straighten his spine, exhausted. Bahorel’s not behind the bar, so Enjolras grabs a stool and waits for everyone else to show up.

“What can I get you?”

He looks up, and it’s the guy from a couple of weeks ago. The low lights inside are as kind as they were outside, bathing him. He’s a shock to look at, slight behind the wide wooden bar, the kind of unexpected handsome that stutters. Enjolras orders in a daze, willing himself not to blush. This is too ridiculous, too charged, like almost colliding on the sidewalk and registering attraction only in the afterimage.

Their group gathers, and Enjolras tries to forget the weight of the bartender’s blue eyes.

“R, come join us!” Bahorel calls from their booth in the middle of a discussion of education policy, and it’s a second shock to realize he means the man behind the bar. Enjolras has sat with his back to him all night, resolute. He must get hit on all the time, a hazard of the job but no less unwelcome for that.

“Nah,” R says, and Enjolras turns to look. “Bemoaning the state of the world, I’m all for that, but you sound like you’re trying to change it.”

“Maybe,” Bahorel allows, cajoling.

“Can’t be bothered,” Grantaire says, and dismisses them to mix another drink.

“Friend of yours?” Enjolras asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Bahorel says.

“Me too,” Jehan chimes in. “He named Bob, you know.”

“I still think that’s too prosaic.” Courfeyrac is all protestation, distracting them from his hand on Bahorel’s knee. “ _Bob_. For an illicit pet that’s your pride and joy?”

“Better than ‘Byron,’ the first choice,” Bahorel says, and they’re off, literacy programs in the context of Romantic poets.

Awareness of the heavy high bar, of R behind it, waits under how closely Enjolras tries to concentrate on what everyone’s saying. It’s been a long time since he saw someone he wanted so much, so immediately. That’s easy to dismiss, but R’s disinterest in their discussion –

He approaches the bar, tries to make it casual.

“More beer?” R asks, soft curls across his forehead that Enjolras wants to brush away.

“Yes, please.” R pulls a lever, his shirt tight over his arms, and Enjolras can’t help asking, “Why not join us? It’s not such a busy night.”

“What, with the crusade you’re cooking up over there?”

“You object to literacy campaigns?” Enjolras can feel his eyebrows go up, involuntary.

“The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles,” R intones, glib, and puts a dark pint down on the bar. “I’m Grantaire, by the way.”

“Enjolras.”

“Well, Enjolras, I’m all for you teaching people how to read.”

“Glad to hear it.” His wallet is stuck in his pocket, hard to dig out.

“But you’re talking about a lot more than that, aren’t you?” Grantaire nods at the table and the seven earnest faces around it, turns to Enjolras with finality. “I don’t think your _a lot more_ will get anywhere, so I don’t believe in fighting for it.”

Enjolras chokes on too many words to get them out politely.

Grantaire grins, unrepentant. “I bet you work for the government, don’t you?”

“Public defender.”

“Guilty as charged! And in your time defending the people, have you ever felt like you’ll win against the system?”

Enjolras doesn’t answer, slowly counting out bills so he doesn’t have to look at Grantaire’s mocking eyes.

“Think about it,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras goes back to his table.

*

“This is our origin story,” Courfeyrac says grandly a few weeks later, unloading bottles from a backpack onto Enjolras’s kitchen counter.

“Drinking?”

“Toasting the future,” Courfeyrac corrects, and starts arranging a cheese plate.

There’s anticipation in the air, in how carefully Enjolras had dusted his shoebox living space and arranged his books and dithered over buying the cheap brie or the slightly-less-cheap. He helps Courfeyrac open a starter bottle, and makes sure everyone’s packet has meeting notes and a working pen. He breathes in satisfaction, a tremulous hope that he can do more for this city that he loves than defense work; he can be active, too. He can build a shield in advance, not only a retroactive shelter.

Then Bahorel arrives, towing Grantaire.

There’s a pause after “You remember my friend Grantaire, I thought he’d be interested,” and Grantaire’s sardonic face says he didn’t tell Bahorel about their conversation.

“Of course,” Enjolras manages, trying not to notice the worn neck of Grantaire’s t-shirt hinting at his collarbones, the way he’s smiling like he knows what Enjolras is thinking. When Bahorel’s turned away to Courfeyrac by the wine, Enjolras is able to say “I didn’t know you believed in trying” without sounding too incredulous.

“Not really. Someone’s got to keep all you strivers honest.” Grantaire shrugs. “Thanks for having us over.” He twines past Enjolras to pour himself a cup of wine, leaving Enjolras in the doorway to greet everyone else, wrong-footed in his own home.

It doesn’t help that throughout the meeting, the naming of the ABC and the establishment of their goals, underneath everything Enjolras is aware of the fleeting heat of Grantaire’s skin against his own.

*

Spring is eaten by a voracious summer, and Enjolras marks the start of a second year with Legal Aid by working past midnight again. He walks home, the city smelling hot and unkempt. He thinks about stopping at the Musain, but he doesn’t. Grantaire is a thorn that he can’t dismiss, a knowing goad at every ABC meeting, and tonight Enjolras is too tired.

Instead, he gets an egg cream from the shabby diner around the corner from his apartment and drinks it outside, the heat of the sidewalk coming up through the soles of his shoes. Whoever it is who plays their music so loud is listening to Coltrane tonight, mournful saxophone pooling between Enjolras’s shoulders. He likes to think it’s the same person every time.

The city feels like a storm might be coming.

He looks up at the sky, catching on the orange of a cigarette that echoes the orange of the diner’s sign. Someone’s cross-legged on the fire escape above him, and the longer he looks, the more the shape resolves into component parts: slender hands, a dark mass of curls.

“Grantaire?” he calls.

“What?” His voice is raspy. “Fuck, Enjolras? Is that you?”

“Yes.” He’s wavering hollow, but solid enough to answer.

“Do you want to come up?” 

He’s too unsure not to, and when Grantaire buzzes him in and he climbs up worn linoleum stairs, this end to the day feels inevitable. 

Grantaire unlocks his door and Enjolras steps into a chaos of flyers for art shows and concerts and plays, passions he wouldn’t have guessed at; Grantaire’s bed is unmade but his sheets gleam soft in the light coming through the windows. 

“You look exhausted,” Grantaire says.

“Yeah.”

“Tired of fighting the man?” His gaze is sober, looking up at Enjolras. It startles him to realize that even in his own space, Grantaire is small.

“No,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire nods.

He gestures toward the open window, ashes falling carelessly. “Want to come outside? Can I get you a drink?”

“Sure.”

Grantaire grabs a couple of beers and they duck under the sash, and if Enjolras wanted to, he could make a metaphor out of getting his suit grimy and hiding behind the fire escape railing to feel apart from the quiet street. It takes him a minute to realize that the Coltrane he hears is coming from a record player spinning at the foot of Grantaire’s bed, lazy and liquid.

“Do your neighbors ever complain about the noise?” he asks, ignoring the hollow of Grantaire’s throat, breathing in the waiting air.

“Not really.” Grantaire looks out at the street, and glances back at Enjolras under the curve of his lashes. “Why did you come up? You don’t really like me.”

Enjolras startles, fingers tightening around the neck of his bottle. “I do.”

“Not really.” There’s something in Grantaire’s voice he can’t place.

“I don’t understand you,” he says instead of asking what it is.

“I don’t understand _you_.”

“Sure you do.” Enjolras knows his smile is bitter. “Quixotic or longing for martyrdom, trying to change something that can’t be changed, at best vanity and at worst vacuous –”

The light shows Grantaire’s face shocked, blanched. “That’s not what I think.”

“You’ve said it often enough.”

Grantaire is impatient, fingers thrumming on brown glass. “I didn’t expect you to pay attention.”

“I always pay attention.” The confession sits between them and the record skips.

“Then you’re paying attention to the wrong things.” Grantaire meets his eyes, oceanic. “Just because I think you’re unlikely to succeed doesn’t mean I think you should stop.”

It’s offered honestly, but Enjolras is too tired to want to stand alone. “Where are we if without friends in a fight?”

“Still stalwart.” Grantaire looks away.

Enjolras drinks. The moment is fragile between them, something translucent growing in his chest. “I do like you,” he offers at last. “I’d like us to try to be friends.”

“What kind of friends?” Grantaire scratches at the label on his bottle.

Enjolras thinks about how the climb here felt ordained, about how Grantaire comes to every meeting even when he’s intractable, about how his fingers look wanting. “Good ones.”

Grantaire laughs. “Enjolras, if you want to fuck, you could just say so. I’ve been waiting for it long enough.”

Every worn nerve is electric, and Enjolras catches Grantaire’s hand. The metal is insistent under his thighs. “I do.”

Grantaire waves him inside, magnanimity except he holds his shoulders tight. “By all means, then let us to bed.”

Enjolras’s desire makes him a panting thing, watching Grantaire dip under his window and lounge louche on his mattress, watching him beckon imperious. 

“Well?”

Enjolras is made of frayed ends, and Grantaire gathers them together. He welcomes Enjolras between the sprawl of his legs and rubs a thumb at Enjolras’s jaw. Enjolras turns his head into Grantaire’s palm, blazingly hot even in the too-warm night. “I’ve wanted this a long time.”

“Happy to be here,” Grantaire says, and then they’re kissing. Grantaire’s mouth is as soft as he’s never sounded, and he traces the shell of Enjolras’s ear with a feather touch. This is new, something open. Enjolras shifts into a different kind of kiss, pushes up more on his elbows to get better leverage, and the way Grantaire yields writes new histories. 

Enjolras pulls back long enough to run his hands under Grantaire’s shirt and feel the planes of him. Grantaire’s hard, trying to push up even as Enjolras holds his hips, and that’s enough to make Enjolras wonder if this is too much, too fast. There’s an undercurrent to Grantaire’s ease that he doesn’t understand. “What do you want?” Enjolras asks. The streetlamps coming through the window are enough to show Grantaire’s set face, but not what it means.

“Anything, come _on_.” Tension cords his arms.

“Grantaire.” Enjolras swallows almost all of his words. “What is this to you?”

“You said you wanted to be friends.”

“Are we?”

“Sure.” Grantaire thrusts up again, recalcitrant. “Come _on_. This isn’t a big deal.”

“It is to me,” Enjolras says, and sits back on his heels. He’s dulled by lack of sleep and by the stagnant air. He doesn’t know what to offer. There’s a weight on his chest, oppressive. He can hardly fill his lungs.

The city’s never quiet, but in this moment all he can hear is his own breath. 

“You really want this?” Grantaire asks at last.

Enjolras gestures at his cock, obscene. The moment is horrible enough without trying to speak.

Grantaire grabs his wrist. “Look at me,” he says.

Enjolras does.

Grantaire’s eyes are wide and uncertain. “I didn’t think you meant like this. I thought you wanted to fuck, and then go on like always.”

“I’ve wanted you for months. You’re challenging, and I like that,” Enjolras says, and in saying it finds that it’s true. “I like _you_ , even when I don’t understand you.”

“This was enough for me,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras watches how his face stills.

“Not for me.”

Grantaire waits, holding him, considering. Enjolras can’t read him at all. Then he tugs Enjolras down again, gentle. “I didn’t know,” he says, and “Please” into Enjolras’s shoulder, and “Please,” whispered against his throat.

Enjolras fucks him soon, Grantaire laid out and gasping with his hair ink against his pale sheets, but not before Enjolras has swallowed around Grantaire’s perfect cock, and not before he’s tasted Grantaire’s fingers, and not before he’s heard the sounds Grantaire makes when Enjolras winds a hand in his hair. Enjolras has had a long time to know everything he wants to do.

When Grantaire comes, it’s with Enjolras inside him, and when Enjolras comes, it’s across Grantaire’s thighs, an urge to mark Grantaire and this night as real.

After, they listen to the city through the window.

**Author's Note:**

> Grantaire listens to the [soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j0Nm5baiM4M) to _[The Harder They Come](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Harder_They_Come)_ and to [John Coltrane](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R416VHIL514).
> 
> There's a [Joe Strummer mural](https://www.google.com/search?q=joe+strummer+mural+east+village&espv=2&biw=1366&bih=643&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjhpvystbjLAhVO5GMKHQQ9AyEQsAQINA) in the East Village that Enjolras loves.
> 
> Also, ferrets really are illegal to keep as pets in New York City, but I doubt Jehan would let that stop him.


End file.
